I was having a few beers with a friend not too long ago and the subject of religion came up. Usually it happens when Lisa (not her real name, as she may be one of the three people that actually read these meanderings), aware of my heathen ways, asks me if I believe in God yet. I ask her if the Bible’s writers ever thought their tales would be taken seriously (“Dude, love the parting of the Red Sea, but don’t you think that’s just a little over the top?”)

Then we’re done because we know we’re not going to convince the other that we’re right and they’re wrong (a “live and let live” approach that would probably work pretty well globally: Anyone know where the existential suggestion box is?).

But this time, God and religion came up in a more roundabout way, and as such the conversation went on longer than it should. Still, I remember much of it (I was still on my first beer when it started, and had not finished the second when it was done) and I thought it worth recounting. Why? Because this is my blog, not yours. Any more questions?

First, a bit of background. Lisa was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago. Thank goodness (or God, depending on your point of view), it was very slow growing and treatment was successful. When the news is that good, I’ll be happy to attribute God, science, cells that fought bravely to slow cancer’s advance, whatever.

Then I asked her about her old high school friend, a guy she had gotten in touch with and found she had some feelings for (her marriage has been rocky for many years and she’s stuck with it, though I am not going into particulars because I don’t want to get all Dr. Phil, even though there are probably many people who consider that pompous, overbearing, holier-than-thou jerk some sort of god).

But, she said, there would no further attempts to contact him. And this is where our conversation began.

Me: “Why not?”

Lisa: “It was a wake-up call.”

“What was a wake-up call.”

“Just … things. Circumstances. My life has changed now. It’s time to go down a different path.”

“Wait, what things? Are you talking about your cancer?”

“Look, I’m … maybe-“

“Cancer is a wake-up call? Are you serious?”

“Yes. It make me see things in a whole new light.”

“A wake-up call from who?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“OK, God. Cancer was a wake-up call from God. That’s what you think.”

“I know you don’t see it that way, but we believe differently. Everything happens for a reason and yes, God is trying to tell me something. It was a wake-up call.”

“See, this is the kind of thing I have a problem with. When I ask for a wake-up call, I expect that at some ungodly hour the phone will ring and I will pick it up and get out of bed. I do not expect someone to come into my room and inflict a potentially mortal wound.”

“Come on, that’s not what I mean at all. It was just a message. God wants me to think differently, to analyze the things in my life. Cancer was the way he deemed the best way. Who am I to question His wisdom?”

“Oh, so then God wanted to send a message to everyone in Bangladesh, so he sent an earthquake and thousands died. And he sent a message to Indonesia via tidal wave. What the hell is wrong with an email?”

“That is so ridiculous. See, you just don’t get it. You’ve never taken the time to think about it yourself. Who knows why those things happen? I don’t know, but I do know there is a reason for them. And I’m not going to pretend I have those answers. But what I do have is faith. What do you have?”

“Here’s the thing. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I’m saying I don’t know. There are so many incredible things in this world that I would like to think there is some design, that there is something behind it. God, a force, whatever. What I have a problem with is your God.”

Lisa: “My God?”

Me: “Your God.”

“What is your problem with God?”

“The problem is how you see him. Essentially, I can live an exemplary life, be kind to my fellow man, never be accused of a felony, raise an amazing family and be a pillar of the community. Hundreds of people attend my memorial service to proclaim how loving and generous I am. Meanwhile, a serial killer responsible for 12 deaths is about to be executed and he tells the attending pastor that he has accepted Jesus into his heart, and he sure seems to be sincere, what with the needle about to slip into his vein. Now, which one of us is going to hell?”

“That is not up to me to decide.”

“OK, fair enough. But according to your beliefs, who is going to hell?”

“My beliefs? Because my beliefs don’t really line up with the church.”

“How about your religion then? According to your religion, who is going to hell?”

“You are. But that’s-“

“And there is one of my biggest problems. Not so much with God, but religion. According to Christians, not only am I going to hell despite trying to live a good life. So are Muslims, Buddhists, Hindi, atheists, etc. Hell is like the mall at Christmas, seriously overcrowded. Heaven sounds like an exclusive country club where only certain people get a tee time. I just can’t buy that.”

“I’m not sure I can either. Which is why I don’t think God separates people like that. He’s not so black and white. I believe that when you die, God gives you another chance. He asks, ‘Do you believe that Jesus is my son, whom I sent down from heaven to you?’ Then it’s up to you to make the choice.”

“So when you die, God let’s you have a do-over.”

“Yes, in simple terms.”

“And if you say no?”

“You’re going to hell.”

“So I’m dead, chatting with God, he introduces me to his son, then says if you still don’t believe, I’m going to that place down there with the fires and screaming and eternal damnation. Or I can say, ‘You know, God, I see the light, mind if I join you in the clouds and the fluff and the softness?’ Given those terms, wouldn’t hell be empty?”

“Maybe. Look, you make it sound ridiculous, and it isn’t. Besides, it’s not about heaven and hell. It’s about having faith, knowing that there is so much more than this. It encourages you to live a better life. Look at you, you’ve led an exemplary life, right? Why? What’s it going to do in the long run? You’re just going to die. What’s the point? How can you live with that over your head?”

“I want to live an exemplary life for my son, for the people in my life. And I don’t think I’m different from 99 percent of the people on this planet. I think we all want to do good. Somewhere along the way as we evolved, we got this ‘help fellow man’ thing that keeps us chugging along without killing everyone. Yet.”

“So what’s the payoff? Why do you do it?”

“Simply because it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s fine, but for you it all comes to an end when you die. That’s so depressing. I know there’s something else. That takes a lot of the fear away. Life is much more enriching. I’d hate to be in a world where there was no faith, where there was no God. That’s a life not worth living.”

“Even though my life is apparently not worth living, it’s still worth a beer, right? Want to get the next round?”

“Of course.”

The other day, a colleague asked if anyone knew what a euphemism is. We all pretended to know until the smarty-pants of the group said, as if quoting the dictionary, “It’s the substitution of a less-offensive state to describe something that could be considered offensive.” Oooh, we’re all so impressed with your incredible brain.

Anyway, she was right. For example, “making water” is a euphemism for “I’ve so got to piss.” It’s a really stupid euphemism, but that doesn’t make it any less an example of what we’re talking about.

But it seems that, as a culture, we prefer reverse euphemisms. That is, substituting something more offensive than using the phrase that is considered just fine for use in the general public. And more often than not, it involves the f-bomb (hey look, it’s a euphemism – or wait, according to rules, it should be an euphemism, but that sounds retarded).

In an effort to make this a more gentle society, here are a few ways you can avoid reverse euphemisms:

“You’re kidding!” instead of “The fuck you say!”

“That’s surprising” instead of “What the fuck.”

“I agree” instead of “Fucking a.”

“Wow” instead of “Holy fuck.”

“I disagree” instead of “Go fuck yourself.”

“I can’t quite get a handle on this task I’ve been assigned” instead of “Fuck this.”

“Really?” instead of “Get the fuck out!”

“I don’t care” instead of “I don’t give a fuck.”

“I really don’t care” instead of “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“I believe I erred” instead of “Fuck me in the ass.”

“I see your point” instead of “Fuck you.”

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Warning, profanity ahead, read at your own risk, goddamn it.

Whatever happened to respect for personal space? By that I mean the inherent right to a certain amount of emptiness between strangers.

For example, several mornings each week I work out at a nearby gym. I know gyms can get crowded and there are times when the only treadmill open is the one between two people. But I arrive at 4 a.m., a time you would think people are way to fucking cranky to intrude upon personal space. Yet on most mornings, as I sweat away on the elliptical trainer (of which there are eight in a row, and I am on one end because I am usually first and thus get my pick, which at 4 a.m. I sure as hell deserve), without fail one of two regulars take the machine right next to me. What the fuck? Where is the respect for my territory, being the alpha exerciser for arriving first? When they climb onto the machine next to me, it is as if they are saying, “I reject the elliptical dominance you assume for arriving first, and to show you my utter disrespect, I am going to ignore the other six empty machines and take the one right next to you, hoping you will notice this giant ‘Fuck you’ as I sweat mere inches away. Asshole.’” So now not only do I have to squeeze back any farts, but I have to look over every now and then to make sure they are not going faster than me because they have the gonads to challenge my dominance. The only way to truly fuck’em right back is to kick their miserable ass in speed. But even then, do they see the nearly empty line of machines and say, “Don’t want to get too close to that guy who has kicked my ass numerable times when it comes to vigorous exercise”? Do they respect the minimum one-machine-space (and more when the whole line is empty) as they clamber aboard? Of course not, forcing me to kick their miserable ass once again. What the fuck? How many times must I prove the fact I totally own you? Even worse is the woman who chews gum as she exercises. No, not just chew. She snaps, crackles and pops like a goddamn breakfast cereal. Her mouth remains wide open as if chewing cud instead of gum (thus I have given her a nickname like I have all the other early morning regulars; she is Cow Bitch and, since I’m thinking of it, others include Echo Boy – he drives that particular Toyota even though he’s a grown-up – Long Tall Baldie in a Black Shirt – or a green shirt or yellow, etc. – and the Fuckleheads, these three numbskulls who talk loudly as they trade off on a machine, and talking way more than exercising). If you are chewing gum that loudly, you need to be at least four machines away at the very least. Maybe more. Or you just need to stop chewing gum as if you were 5.

There are also very specific, if unwritten, personal-space rules that apply to movie theaters. Early arrivers earn a personal sphere that stretches several seats in every direction (and more if the movie is not crowded). For example, let us say the first people to arrive take and aisle seats in a particular row. Their sphere now stretches two rows in front of them as well as down their entire row, save for the aisle seats on the opposite side. Of course, this sphere shrinks as more people arrive, and disappears should it be a very popular film, as the opening weekend of the Pirates of the Caribbean, even though that movie was a big steaming pile of crap. But why is it that an allegedly intelligent species can’t seem to grasp these basic rules of personal space? May times I will have established myself at the end of a row (again, being first asserts dominance) and with many many seats still open, someone will brush past me and sit a mere 3-4 seats away. Or worse, sit right in front of me, at which point they might as well just turn around and say, “Go fuck yourself, ace.” Because those seats directly in front of someone are the most dear when it comes to personal space. Imagine the alpha lion laying on the sunny rock, a rock that suddenly becomes the best sunny rock on the whole fucking savannah because that particular lion has chosen to lay on it. Now, there are plenty of other rocks and, quite honestly, are pretty much the same. And the other lions stretch out on them, knowing that while they may not be the best rocks on the savannah, they’re pretty fucking good. Now imagine the lion who decides the only rock he wants is the one occupied by the alpha male. Now as he attempts to take a spot on that rock, he is going to get his head taken off by the alpha lion. And the other lions are going to think, “Man, that guy was a complete dumbass, these rocks are just fine.” This is the attitude you need to adopt as you enter a movie theater, especially if you arrive late because, unlike everyone already seated, you can’t get your act together. They have all chosen their fucking rocks and while they may not be the best, they deserve room and respect. So don’t go plopping yourself down in front of them or right next to them. Especially if you are the type to make really annoying theater noises, like chewing ice or pawing through popcorn. Just because no one will tear your fucking head off doesn’t mean you’re not a dumbass.

And bathrooms. I am not sure what proper protocol is in the women’s room (nor do I care), but in the men’s room, it’s pretty simple. When there is room, you need to be far enough away to make it clear you are not interested in glancing at another guy’s johnson. This means at least one urinal away, and if the bathroom is empty, then you should take a urinal at one of the ends, allowing the next guy to take the urinal at the other end. Then fill in as needed (next guy takes urinal in middle, and so on). There are times when this is impossible, like in most airport bathrooms since those thing are always so fucking crowded because no one ever wants to piss on a plane because the only worse bathrooms are the porta-johns at the Arkansas State Fair. So there is no need to hold it just because the only available urinal is next to someone (and if you do wait, or you take a stall to pee, then people will think you can’t step up to the plate like a man). Take the open urinal and stare straight ahead the entire time, making it clear you are not there to glance at another guy’s johnson. Stall etiquette also requires you to leave at least one empty between squatters. Unless you happen to be a U.S. senator determined to deny his homosexual tendencies until he enters an airport bathroom, which apparently is the best place to launch your ass rocket.

These are just some of the places people need to be more mindful of personal space. But it’s something that should always be at the back of your mind when in public. For example, as you peruse the shelves of your local grocery store, you may want to ask yourself, “By placing my cart in the center, have I hindered shopping traffic, or do I own the whole fucking aisle like I think I do?” The answer may surprise you.

Every now and then, I come across brief descriptions of upcoming movies issued by film studios. Here's the favorite so far, submitted by 20th Century Fox for Aliens vs. Predator opening Dec. 25:
“In this follow-up to the worldwide hit Alien vs. Predator, the iconic monsters from two of the scariest film franchises ever, wage their most brutal battle yet in an unsuspecting Colorado town.”
See, it's the unsuspecting towns that always leave themselves open to tragedy. In fact, we can envision this conversation between two members of the police department of the unsuspecting Colorado Town.
”Something terrible happened here, so much death and destruction. I suspect drug dealers.”
”Yup, may be. Though I suspect this is due to the actions of a a covert domestic militia, maybe even a government experiment gone wrong. Hell, it could be anything. Terrorists.”
“I agree, but you know what I don't suspect? Predators. Nope, doesn't look like Predators.”
“Right. Or Aliens. I'd be real surprised if it were Aliens or Predators. Can you imagine Aliens and Predators in this small unsuspecting town?"
"No way. Can't even believe we're talking about it."

So I was listening to Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is” and realized the guy who wrote it was being such a dick.

As he’s walking down the street one day, a man comes up to him and asks him what the time was that was on his watch (not that anyone would phrase the question like that, but OK, dramatic license).

So the man with the watch, instead of saying, you know, “It’s 2:15” or whatever, launches into this lecture about does anybody really know what time it is, or does anyone really care?

In answer to that first question, yes, tons of people really know what time it is. Even when this song was written about 15 BC (Before Cellphone), you could get the right time by calling a certain number, or checking the bank sign, or asking a guy on the street who wasn’t being a dick.

In answer to the second question, again, it’s tons of people. If no one really cared about time, what good would plane schedules be, or a three-minute egg, or the half-hour your girlfriend tells you she’ll be ready by (which is more a gross mis-estimation of time than not caring about time).

And if the guy with the watch doesn’t care about time, why the fuck is he wearing a watch?

So instead of getting an answer, the guy asking about time instead has to listen to some existential bullshit about we all have time enough to die, when all he really wanted to know was if he had enough time to get to a meeting or catch his favorite show or meet his buddy for a couple of beers.

But he doesn’t find out the time because he happened to ask a guy who’s a complete dick.

Junior high is tough, tougher if you fall into the 57^th percentile (or lower) in growth development.

Junior high is that time when bullies establish themselves and, worse, refine their techniques. The shove in the hallway is no longer enough, not when you’re in seventh and eighth grades (bullies occupying them simultaneously, taking eighth grade classes while trolling the seventh grade for fresh victims).

In junior high, bullies begin to network, passing along valuable tips (“The boys bathroom outside the media room is the best for swirlies – water level is an inch or two higher and flush goes on for several more seconds, resulting in a great dunking every time”). They open themselves up to methods that were impossible to perfect in elementary school for two reasons: first, kids stay in the same room all day, eliminating those four minutes between classes (bullies call that “primetime”) and secondly, elementary school teachers often develop an affection for smaller kids (“prey”) and thus watch out for them.

I became an unqualified expert in bullying in junior high. As a popular victim, I was able to see and experience what each bully in school had to offer. On my first day in seventh grade, for example, I apparently stepped on the Eighth Grade Lawn, a small patch of turf just outside the A wing (though I would discover later that the Eighth Grade Lawn was any bit of grass trod upon, or coming as close as a foot or less, by any smallish seventh grader).

It was then I met Robbie, who a year later would rely on my ability to lower my shoulder and write my answers in large easy-to-spot-from-space lettering to finally pass eighth grade. (We never became friends, but my assistance was frequently rewarded with less-severe noogies and titty-twisters).

“Hey, you,” Robbie said before the bell for first period rang. “Stop right there.”

I was 4-10 and 82 pounds, and thus very aware of my stature as victim. I immediately stopped even though there were probably 17 kids within 10 feet of me. I turned and saw a blond-headed kid about the size of a dumptruck with a face to match.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

At this point, I would love to remember me saying, “Well, based on your size I’d say college, but based on your intellect I’d say first grade” and then assuming a king-fu stance. But I really don’t remember saying anything. Having your fate sealed does that to a guy.

“You’re on the Eighth Grade Lawn, and I know you’re not in eighth grade,” he said. “Come here.”

You know how in the movies that time can freeze for all but one person, and that person starts walking around with this dazed look in his face because, though he has no idea what’s going on, it can’t be good.

I moved toward him, the world around me frozen. One step. Another. Soon I was within a few feet on him. The world unfroze and there was a small crowd around us. Just at bullies can sense victims (seriously, it is like sharks smelling blood from miles away; bullies pick up the scent of fear anywhere on a playground), bystanders can sense a confrontation worth watching. Suddenly they find themselves in a semicircle, their hive consciousness telling them something bad and really cool is about to unfurl.

“Since this is the first day of school,” Robbie said, “I’ll give you a break. Normally I would have to pound you, smack (the derogatory term of the day, don’t ask me why). But this time I’m just going to trash you.”

Suddenly I am free, soaring above the crowd, a miracle of flight. Until I realize I’m not flapping since my arms are pinned to my side, and supporting my horizontal nature is Robbie’s shoulder. And just as I realize what is happening, I fall back to earth. No, not fall. Thrust. And not just to earth. Into a trashcan. I can tell because it is very dark and even smellier. And yes, I am upside down. Definitely upside down.

I would later learn just how wondrous Robbie’s trashing technique was. First, he knew the perfect trash barrel, one filled about a quarter-full of leavings, preferably foodstuffs which offered a bad smell as well as a nice cushion. If the can were too full, it would topple shortly after landing, depriving the crowd of the anticipated spectacle of the kid scissoring his legs and screaming as he attempted to escape his predicament. If the can wasn’t full enough, the hollow thud of skull on metal often doubled or tripled the odds of someone in the crowd finding his/her conscious and telling a teacher. Robbie also had perfected the trajectory, his victim sailing into the precise center of the can with plenty of clearance on all sides.

It truly was a thing of beauty.

Other bullies would make rookie mistakes, not so surprising since this was junior high, kind of the spring training for social predators. They would pick the wrong trashcans or toss their victim awkwardly, lucky to hit a 65 or higher on the humiliation scale (Robbie often topped out in the 90s, greatly increasing his chances of scarring his victims for life).

Some even committed the greatest sin in all of bullydom – their victims would escape before their humiliation was complete. This was unforgivable. If it happened too many times (and one was too many), the bully lost all his status. He would no longer be able to sense fear and, far worse, instill it. Soon he would find himself in a semicircle with bystanders, a fate that could eventually turn him into a B student and, finally, a productive member of society.

And it would happen. Taylor (never sure if that was his first or last name) once lost his grip on a seventh grader as he was taking him to the ground for a pink belly. Taylor had failed to properly pin his prey’s arms, allowing the kid to wriggle out of his shirt to freedom. Not a week later, in the midst of pantsing one of the fattest kids in school (biting off way more than he could chew), Taylor had neglected to keep an eye out. His deed was witnessed by a teacher (the only time I knew this to happen before or after at good old Pine Hollow), and thus was force to take the March of “I Can’t Believe I Was Caught, Don’t Look at Me” to the principal’s office. Last time I saw, Taylor was pointing threateningly at sixth graders visiting to see what their new school would look like.

Robbie had them all beat. It was almost and honor to be bullied by the best. And I would like to think that one time in particular might still be remembered by those fortunate enough to witness it.

Pine Hollow was comprised of four wings, long halls lined with roughly 10 classrooms per side. The furthest distance between halls was no more than 200 feet, a distance that could be traversed on foot in no more than a few minutes. There were eight periods in the day, not including lunch. Time between periods was seven minutes (six minutes to the warning bell, another minute to start of class). Given that it took no more than three minutes to completely cross campus, that left four minutes for prime bully time. Four minutes is an eon to those who have perfected the random victimization of others.

And so it was on this day, roughly halfway through the year, enough time for Robbie to establish his position as Alpha Bully and for me to well known at Easy Pickings. And I had no idea I was about to walk into the perfect storm (as I pieced together later).

Robbie was leaving geometry in which he just received his latest test: a D, expected given his permanent spot in the gradebook’s subterranean layer. Apparently, however, Robbie was extremely upset since the smack he usually copied (a position I would one day hold) was either sick that day or had been moved to a desk out of Robbie’s view. I was never able to confirm, not that it mattered. Because Robbie was angry, and there was only one way to salve that particular wound.

Somebody had to feel worse than he did.

I was coming out of, well, I really don’t remember. Things don’t really kick in at this point. I was probably just looking forward to lunch like I usually did, where I could hang in the comfort of other smacks who felt absolutely no compunction to toss me in a trash can or give me an Indian burn. It was a pretty decent existence.

What I do remember is I was leaving the A wing and, from what I was to understand later, I stepped into Robbie’s peripheral vision.

“Hey, you,” he shouted. Remember that whole “world frozen, crowd gathers” thing? Yeah, exactly. Only now it was in the A Wing instead of one of the several Eighth Grade Lawns.

“You know what would look good?” he asked. “Because I have an idea. A really great idea.”

Oh, Jesus. It’s one thing to be summarily swept up and tossed in a trashcan. But when a bully engages in patter, that, people, is a bona fide “Oh shit” moment.

A simple trashcanning wasn’t going to do. This was going to be special.

Here’s another thing I would learn later – the trophy case in A Wing was normally locked. Not that it needed to since it was empty due to the fact Pine Hollow’s athletes did not excel like its bullies did. There wasn’t even a “Good sportsmanship” plaque, given to the league’s most inept teams as consolation. And thus all that gathered in this case notched into the wall was dust.

Today, the case was not locked. One of the A/V kids (read “victim,” occupying a level even below smack) was cleaning it and neglected to replace the lock that kept prevented its sliding doors from moving.

Robbie stepped over to the case and hurled one of the doors aside. The crowd actually parted before he made his move over to the case, so tuned into him they were starting to anticipate his moves.

“You need to be on display,” he said. “You deserve it.”

Robbie grabbed me in the usual fashion, in a bearhug, and lifted. The way between us and the display case remained clear of students.

I began to analyze the situation. The display case was roughly six feet wide, thus each sliding glass door was slightly more than three feet wide, allowing for overlap. Once scrunched, there would be plenty of clearance for my body.

The case looked to be about nine inches deep, a measure difficult to attain due to its mirrored back. Maybe six inches. This could be a problem. Though my frame could easily fit lengthwise, I’m not so sure that is depth would be adequate. Now if I were to shift so that my shoulders were –

Wow, I did fit. Robbie, not one for math, relied instead on mechanics and brute force, applying enough pressure and torque until I was within the display case. He slid the door shut. And left. It was like the baseball player who launched a ball into the stratosphere. Rather than standing at home plate and admiring the view, the true professional merely flicks his bat aside and begins to trot, his eyes never leaving the basepath.

That’s what Robbie’s exit was like. Perfect.

I wasn’t there for long, easily sliding the glass out of my way and flopping out. It was then I noticed the true artistry of Robbie’s performance. There, right across the hall, was the school office. There, not far from the front counter, were two secretaries who had either missed the whole thing or, more likely, chose not to get involved.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that the vice principal’s office faced the front counter, and he had a direct line of sight to the display case. One of his jobs was to make sure no students were harmed at any point during their education, and yet there he sat, busy with paperwork. It was like stealing the patrol car after an officer pulled you over for a ticket. Audacious and brilliant.

Sure, I was stuffed into a display case. That didn’t stop me from appreciating the boldness of such a spontaneous and cruel move.

Well, it did back then. Of course. But I have since come to terms with the fact Robbie was a poor, pathetic boy who could relate to others only through aggression as a means of dealing with his extremely low self-esteem.

My hunch is that today Robbie is serving 10-to-15 for aggravated assault. Or he’s a CEO.

Any questions I had about how my dad would accept new technology were answered shortly after I plugged in his new computer (his first) about five years ago.

Though he had decided months earlier he wanted to be part of the Internet, staying abreast of the weather reports without having to wait 10 minutes for the next radio report, he waited until I visited so someone of some knowledge could help him with the purchase and setup.

Midway through the lesson, I introduced him to the mouse, telling him how it controlled the curson. Peering over his shoulder at the screen, I told him to move the mouse and note how it corresponded to the cursor. Only the cursor wasn’t moving. I told him to move the mouse. “I am,” he said. I looked to my right and saw him waving it in the air like a wand.

OK, this was going to take a while.

So as my son loved the idea of packing our Nintendo Wii for the annual trip to see his grandparents, I wasn’t so sure how well it would go over. My mom wants nothing to do with technology, clinging to her corded phone (no answering machine), her pen and notecards, her VCR (trusting its operation to my dad).

My dad is a little more open, as noted by his ability to tape various TV programs. But his last encounter with video games was the Atari 2600 we played in my teen years. One joystick, one button, a stick figure or two on the screen – as far as he knew, videogames hadn’t changed much over the years. Putting an Xbox 360 controller in his hand would have been akin to putting him behind the wheel of a 747 and pointing toward the runway.

But with the Wii’s simple remote, hell, he just might find something to like.

Not long after our arrival, my son plugged the Wii into their 14-year-old RCA 27-inch TV and its cutting-edge (at the time) video input. (In fact, the TV was almost 14 years old on the nose, as my mom had not only retained the receipt, but filed it in such a way as to be able to retrieve it in just a few minutes, proof that life in analog still works).

We fired up the tennis game and invited my parents to watch. Their innate sense of politeness overcame their complete disinterest in video games. As my son and I swatted the ball back and forth, dad showed his first sign that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to join the 21^st century.

“So you just swing the paddle?” he asked. “And the game can see you? How does that work?”

I had no idea the inner workings of the Wii, beyond the sensor bar placed on the TV. So in accordance with family tradition, I winged it.

“That bar on top of the TV sends out these nano pulses, kind of like radar but way more sophisticated,” I said. “The beams bounce off of us and the game ‘reads’ us, and all our movements are transferred to the screen in a fraction of a second.”

“Just because I still have dialup doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” said dad, in the fine family tradition of knowing bullshit when he hears it.

“I have no idea how it works. Only that it does.”

After a few games, I offer him the remote. “Want to try?”

“Yes.” I was a little surprised how eager this 80-year-old man, who grew up in a time when interactive entertainment was turning the knob on the Philco radio, was ready to try something completely different.

One small step for a dad, one giant leap for geriatric kind.

I should have known. After all, his first instinct with the mouse was to wave it in the air. The Wii’s remote almost came naturally to him.

But not naturally enough. After whiffing at the tennis ball four straight times, thus losing the set in record time, he wasn’t quite fast enough to keep up with the Wii’s nano pulses (or whatever they are).

Time to slow it down.

“You want to try bowling?” I said.

“Yes.”

It seemed to be a much better fit. Bowling required the same motion was in real-world bowling, only with a 6-ounce remote instead of a 16-pound ball. Hell, someone should open a Wii bowling center near retirement homes everywhere. And serve beer. Call it Wii Bowl and Drink. Call me for licensing.

As dad prepared to launch his first ball, the he encountered the first barrier: buttons. The game required twice as many buttons at the Atari, a leap in the learning curve.

Dad is waving the remote like a pendulum, but his character remains motionless.

“How come nothing is happening?” he said. “Your little game broke.”

“No, here, to start you have to press the A button,” I said. “This big one top.”

“What one?”

“Here, let go and I’ll show you. This one. The big one with an A on it.”

“Ah, I just press that and I’m set?”

“That’s it.”

“Great, let’s go,” he said, taking the remote.

His bowler now stood ready to go. Dad swung his remote. His bowler stayed still.

“Jesus, now what?”

“You, uh, have to press the B button.”

“Another button? I didn’t have to press all these buttons when I played tennis. You didn’t tell me about all the buttons.”

“It’s easy, see, the B button is on the back, see, it’s like a trigger. Press it and hold it, then swing your arm like you’re bowling. All there is too it.”

Dad assumed the bowling stance and pressed B, sending his bowler into motion. He swing his arm down and back up, and the Wii responded with a blip and a message, the bowler frozen in place.

“Dad, to let go of the ball you have to release the B button,” I said.

“Criminy, what’s with all the button stuff? There are no buttons in bowling.”

“No, there are very heavy balls so this is a lot easier. You just have to time it. Press the B button, swing your arm and then release B at the point you want to let go of the ball. It just takes some adjustment but once you get used to it, it’s real easy.”

Once again he assumed the stance and pressed B. His bowler swung his arm back and released the ball, sending it into the virtual crowd behind him, who react with a startled “Oh!”

“That was real good, you just released it too early,” I said, remembering how patient dad was with me when I was learning how to drive, a potentially lethal activity given my lack of skill. So I could do this. “You just want to let go of B just as your bowler swings forward.”

He tried again and again. More often than not, he hurled the ball with a high arc, the kind that would have dented the lane and resulted in his expulsion had this been a real alley.

But by the seventh frame he had caught on, scoring his first spare.

“OK,” he said. “Now we’re cooking.”

Not quite. He failed to break 100 but, refusing to quit after humiliation, dad challenged his grandson to another game.

And in the great family tradition of grossly overestimating new skills, he added, “This time I’m going to kick your little butt.”

And he did just that, scoring a 134-126 victory. He eventually played golf and baseball several times during our weeklong visit, and I silently thanked Nintendo for giving my dad a small taste of this century. No, it didn’t spur him to ditch his dialup Internet connection for broadband (“I don’t need to get the weather any faster than I do now”), but it’s a welcome step.

And you have to love a device that not only offers an equal playing field for an 80-year-old grandfather and his 12-year-old grandson, but lets the grandson see his granddad in a different light.

“He was really getting into it,” my son said later. “That was cool. Maybe we should get him a Wii for Christmas or something.”

Sure, but dad would wait six months for us to visit and hook it up. Some things never change.

The good physicians of the AMA don’t know this, but they let me off the hook and made me a better parent with just one vote. They decided that videogame addiction is not a verifiable affliction. Good thing, No, I’m not addicted (not that I need a verifiable affliction to take mood-altering drugs when “because I want to” will suffice should I ever decide to start munching pills). However, my son is walking the line between “I play to fill the time, and there’s an awful lot of time to fill” and “If you turn off the 360, I will be turning you off.”

OK, it’s not that bad. Yet. But he is rather preoccupied right now with a little game called Crackdown. In it, he plays an enforcer of the law who gets more powerful as he enforces more laws (and by “enforces” I mean “kills” and by “laws” I mean “bad guys”). It’s rated M for Mature, and he is fairly mature for his age. Good enough.

You may judge me if you wish, but let the person without tweens on long too-hot-to-go-out summer days cast the first stone. But after watching my son play Crackdown for many hours, I can see some wonderful things happening. Many years ago there was a naïve, perhaps mentally challenged author who wrote “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” (Which is total bullshit, so of course it sold billions of copies.)

With that crap in mind, I present “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned from Playing Crackdown,” as I envision my son writing 30 years from now:

It is not your accuracy, it is the size of your weapon that counts.

Life is not worth living if you can’t roundhouse-kick a car off an embankment.

Most problems are best solved with a rocket launcher.

The most important decision you make each day is what weapon to carry.

Ammunition: Never leave home without it.

Why abuse steroids when you can enhance yourself naturally through the senseless killing of others.

There are two kinds of people in the world: those with 4-star agility who can jump 30 feet in the air, and cannon fodder.

You can kill way more people with a nondescript sedan than with the most tricked-out automatic weapon so seriously, do not piss me off when I am driving.

Nothing clears a traffic jam like a well-placed grenade.

It is a good thing the Vatican announced 10 Commandments for Motorists because until then, people were probably pretty confused about how the original “Thou shalt not kill” commandment pertained to the roadway. (It’s pretty clear now as the Vatican’s First Commandment for drivers also happens to address the wrongness of killing, ending any hopes for escaping sin with the “But it was an accident” excuse).

In general, the car commandments are intended to make us more virtuous in the vehicle. It even suggests praying behind the wheel, but if you are the closed-eyes-and-bowed head type, please refrain from talking to God while in motion. And no, “Please God, just let me make this light” does not count as prayer.

That’s all well and good when it comes to sin-avoidance on the highway. But does “Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin” or “Feel responsible for others” really help anyone’s commute?

That is why we devised these 10 Commandments for People Driving in the Real World:

10. Thou shalt not drive the speed limit in the fast lane unless thou art seeking to provoke road rage.

9. Thou shalt not provoke road rage.

8. During off-peak hours, thou shalt treat the carpool lane like the fast lane.

7. During peak, thou shalt have the moral standards to stay out of the carpool lane if thou are alone, less ye risk eternal damnation (which is far more likely than being pulled over by a patrol officer).

6. Thou shalt not bypass traffic on the right only to cut into a crowded left-turn lane at the last second, for even the meek will want to kick your ass.

5. Thou shalt back off to allow others in front of you, unless thou sees no turn signal, then thou art free to narrow the gap, for thou shalt remain without sin when cutting off dickheads.

4. Thou shalt not drive the speed limit in the fast lane. How many times do we have to tell you people?

3. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s space in front of you, lest thou can find your away around him without being a jerk.

2. Thou shalt not have stickers, magnets or other attachments boasting of ordinary accomplishments or feelings, and yes, we are specifically talking about stick families, honor-student bumper stickers and support-our-troop magnets. Assholes.

1. Thou shalt get the fuck out of our way. Seriously.

It is a quiet Friday morning, a day off, my son still sleeping in his room just down the hall. I am at the kitchen table sipping coffee and sifting through the newspaper spread before me.

The glass door to the back yard is open, a fruitless attempt to capture a rare whiff of cool air available only this early in the morning. In another 20 minutes, the door will be shut again as the mercury steadily climbs into the 80s, 90s, beyond.

The three dogs wander in and out, knowing this freedom is short-lived. It is quiet, not an ambience I prefer. Usually I’d have the stereo on, but this is my son’s first day of summer vacation and I don’t want to wake him.

I take a sip from the half-filled ceramic cup, a blue and beige mug purchased from a tiny gift store in Bodega Bay more than 20 years ago, a Christmas gift from my parents given to me when I rarely, if ever, drank any sort of hot beverage. Now I drink – no, I need – coffee each morning.

As I drink, my eyes drift to the living room. There is a, well, small mound of something on the area rug. Sandy, an Australian kelpie (smallish dog, soft chocolate brown coat, lighter at the haunches, darker along the spine) stands over it, licking it at first, then taking a small nibble.

Great, I will let her nibble at it, since it appears to be a small pile of grass. I can make out shreds poking from the center of the mound, though I can make out little else with the scene just a silhouette with the light filling the back door.

Sandy has always been a stealth puker. Everything is fine one moment, suddenly there’s a moist stain on the carpet. I will clean it up when she’s done dining on the remains, trying to make it as easy on myself as possible.

I go back to the paper, keeping an eye on her to see when she finishes. Less than a minute later she turns and walks out the door. Damn, now it’s my turn.

I push out the chair, mindful of the scraping noise it makes across the tile. I walk toward the carpet to get a measure of the mess and see what I will need in the way of cleaning supplies.

Only it’s not grass. It’s something else. There are piles of tiny white balls, smaller than BBs. They are swirled about small scoops of brown pudding, and there’s a short, thin twig, bent in the middle and frayed on one end.

Not, not a stick. A bone. With a little claw. And there, inches away, poking from under the mound, white-tipped gray feathers overlapping one another in a straight line. A wing.

Wonderful.

Sandy wanders in again, heading for her prize. Her head dips over the largest pile.

“Sandy, no!” She cowers, taking a step back, but she recovers quickly and is back over her kill. She nips it at the center, lifting it with her front teeth. I don’t stop her because the majority of the remains have lifted cleanly from the carpet. The rest will be fairly easy to clean up.

“OK, go, go on, outside,” I say, pointing to the back door. She slips out and I follow her across the patio to the grass, where she drops it.

“No touch, no, no!” Again she backs away. I will clean that up later. With the lawn mower, the perfect vacuum cleaner for such a mess.

I order her back inside and shut the door behind us. We walk past what is left of the bird, and Sandy stops. Her had dips again, but I can’t tell what she has this time.

“Drop it!”

She looks at me. Her jaws close slowly, gently.

Crunch.

“I said drop it. Now!”

Crunch.

“Sandy, no! Drop it!”

Crunch.

Oh well.

I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the entryway closet, sucking up most of what’s left without having to get too close. Then with a paper towel, I pluck the leg and wing and toss them into the trashcan.

My son sleeps through the entire episode.

I pour a fresh cup of coffee and go back to the newspaper. Sandy pads over and slips under the kitchen table. I feel her breath on my knees. I scratch under her chin but pull away when she tries to lick me.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Bird eater.”

It sure seems like a wonderful decision filled with a combination of grace and forgiveness that only the self-righteous would find pious, but Pope Benedict XV-something has declared that non-baptized children now are eligible for heaven.

Before that magnanimous act, infants unfortunate enough to be born to Catholic parents, their fate compounded by a very early death, were ordered to full time residency in limbo, truly the Third World of the afterlife. Yes, it was better than Catholic Hell with its eternal suffering (making it the Republican Party of the afterlife), but it’s not a place you’d like to stay for more than a few centuries.

But thanks to the most recent pope, limbo babies have been granted permanent resident status in heaven. And that can prove to be quite a problem.

For years limbo babies illegally entering heaven have been doing the menial tasks not fit for heaven’s legal spirits. Mowing immaculate lawns. Trimming hedges to reflect God’s glory. Cleaning up after Mama Cass. On the socio-angelic scale, only Muslims mistakenly given last rights by a Catholic priest ranked lower (largely due to their constant whining about a serious lack of Catholic heaven virgins, as no such thing has ever existed).

Though limbo babies were illegal aliens, most everyone turned a blind eye, especially when there were dishes to be washed after the annual Next to Last Supper, commemorating a meal that was truly a party (as opposed to the downer that was the Last Supper).

One can only imagine the line of limbo babies outside the Pearly Gates now awaiting entrance. The Pope could have considered a more orderly option, such as granting temporary legal status to limbo babies currently in heaven. Those limbo babies, who have been illegally serving God’s will for uncountable years, would have to return to limbo and apply for legal status (a mere formality involving some paperwork and mandatory century-long wait).

Limbo babies actually in limbo would first have to apply for temporary residency, which would be granted based on such Catholic factors as how guilty they feel for not being baptized and, well, that would be the only factor. Limbo babies would be ranked accordingly, and would placed ahead of heaven’s undocumented limbo babies who didn’t feel at all guilty for illegally crossing heaven’s porous border.

All decisions would be made by Saint Peter as the newly installed head of the Catholic Division of LICE (Limbo Immigration Control and Enlightenment).

Only in this way can officials process in an orderly fashion the flood of limbo babies into heaven. How this will effect the heavenly economy – which quite frankly has nothing but spirits who expect their every need fulfilled without lifting a finger because this is after all heaven damn it – is uncertain.

Of course, Catholics never thought about that when they created limbo. Other religions don’t face such problems due to a rather lenient view toward those who just lost their lives, which can be a traumatic event. Protestants, for example, chose not to create a gated community in the afterlife, allowing in just about anything, even dogs. And without a limbo-baby-based workforce, they’ve somehow managed to survive.

If there is one good thing to come out of the tragedy at Virginia Tech, you probably think it has to do with how we’ve come together as a nation, offering aid and comfort to those so in need of the support of total strangers.

And you would be wrong. That whole “outpouring of love” stuff is OK as it goes, but is it really going to change things? Of course not.

No, the real good thing to come out of the Virginia Tech shootings is that pointed out the enormous flaws in our gun control laws. Ever since the Founding Fathers guaranteed the right to bear arms, the nation has struggled with what this really means. Over the last 200-plus years, we’ve added pages and pages of laws in an attempt to logically interpret and implement the Second Amendment in ways that would fit with today’s technology with current moral standards.

And it’s been a colossal failure. Virginia Tech was just the latest example. Every time someone with a grudge, a gun and a loose grip on reality opens fire in a public place, the gun-control debate escalates to a point where it’s nothing more than a political shouting match.

It’s time for the debate to end. The answer is clear.

Everyone should be packing heat. And I mean everyone. If you are old enough to fingerpaint, you are old enough to draw down.

Imagine if the Virginia Tech killer walked into a classroom of fully armed students learning German. Before you could say “Achtung, baby,” Mr. Mass Murderer is felled in a hail of bullets, from the 9mm semiautomatic emptied by the captain of the wrestling team to the .38 caliber snub-nose that takes up so little room in the stylish Dooney & Bourke carried by the cheerleader. End of story. OK, a few unfortunates sitting in the front row might have been cut down by the crossfire, but that’s the price we pay for a safer nation. Once everyone is carrying, compare the number of dead bad guys to the total number of friendly fire casualties and odds are excellent that bad guys would outnumber collateral damage victims by 2 or even 3 to 1. Throw in some voluntary gun training and that ratio goes up.

The problem is you’ll still have those folks who think guns will escalate violence, which is absolute garbage. Our world has lived in relative peace thanks to the concept of mutually assured destruction. Imagine if leaders in the Cold War did not develop enough nuclear bombs to destroy the Earth 300 times over. That kind of nuke-free peace woule be shaky at best. Only with an arsenal of intercontinental missiles trained on the enemy can we guarantee the kind of safe and secure world we have today.

That concept can easily be transferred to the neighborhood level. The key is to start young so that by the time our children are 9 or 10, a gun is as a natural part of their lunch as a juicebox.

Sidearms can be introduced as early as preschool. I know what you’re thinking – won’t the recoil of a Glock break their still-developing arms? Of course it would, which is where responsible parenting comes in. Start small. A .22 caliber handgun would be just fine at this age. Point a .22 at any preschooler, trust me, they’re going to back down because that thing is going to look like a cannon.

Teachers would carry as well, and with their advanced sense of targeting, they could make sure playground shootouts would be limited to antagonists. It’s a win-win situation.

There would have to be a few rules as guns become a natural part of the educational system. For example, you could not draw down on someone who just fouled you on the basketball court. Unless it was a flagrant foul. If that is the case, feel free to put a cap in his ass. Non-fatal wounds can have a lasting impact.

Also, no putting teachers in the crosshairs unless it is self-defense. Let’s say an English teacher has just ordered a disruptive student to the responsibility center. The student, clearly angry, quickly reaches into his backpack. The teacher, thinking the student is reaching for his Luger, a present from his grandfather for his ninth birthday, draws his favorite semiautomatic from the small of his back where he keeps it, comforted by its sharp metallic edges pressing against his flesh. The student, however, was merely digging for his iPod (that’s his story and he is sticking to it), but now that he’s looking down the barrel of a smartly designed handgun (thinking he’s going to ask for one of those for Christmas), he is free to pull his own weapon, and may the fastest draw win. Fair is fair.

No longer would schools be the unsafest places in the entire world as they are now. The mentally unbalanced would have to seek other havens to unleash Hell’s fury upon the unsuspecting.

But in this world, there is no such haven. Draw a weapon today at a convenience store and you’re going to walk out of there with $35 in small bills. Do the same when carrying a gun is mandatory and you’re committing suicide by annoyed public.

Arguments can be settled swiftly with no need for the intervention of law enforcement. That guy in the movie theater who doesn’t turn off his cellphone? See how cooperative he is when you’ve got Smith and Wesson pointed at his head. Dude bangs his door against your car outside Wal-Mart? Notice how quickly he offers to pay for damages when you are the first to get to your revolver. The woman who leaves her grocery cart in the middle of the aisle like, what, she owns the damn place, so screw you and find another way around? No need to say “Excuse me” when you can just as easily take out one of her kneecaps.

The Virginia Tech massacre could have been prevented if the gun lobby had had its way so many years ago. It’s not too late. Until legislators realize the wisdom of a gun in every pocket, purse and glovebox, we will be a society handcuffed by the unavailability of guns to protect ourselves. Or settle arguments. Or act on grudges.

Now for something I would never admit in public (yet it’s on a blog – go figure):

It begins on a Sunday afternoon in a quiet suburb with a man far too old for video games in the midst of an epic battle which, if victorious, would beat a game that has consumed way too much of his time over the last few months.

That man would be me. So? I’ve done worse things with my time. Like spending an afternoon stuffing children’s clothes with rags to make small bodies, then splattering them with fake blood and putting them on the driveway for a Halloween crime scene, a dazzling display seen by maybe 3 trick or treaters that night, the slowest Halloween of all time. And I’ve spent countless hours recounting the minutiae in my life for a blog read by, as far as I know, two people, including me. I know how to waste time and it never bothers me.

So I’m on the last boss in a game called Zelda: Twilight something or other, and this stage is 30 levels or so and if you quit you go all the way back to the entrance of the castle and start it all over again and whoever designed that needs to have 78 hours removed from his/her life for no good reason. I’m in the last battle where I’m swordfighting this very large bad guy who apparently was born with a cutlass in his hand, and it’s really not all that much fun by this point. I’m down to 4 lives but I’ve hit the boss at least a half-dozen times so I figure I’m close. Then my son Bryson comes in (I play the Wii on my computer since the monitor has inputs) and wants me to download a Weird Al song. He sits right next to me and I’m trying to parry and he has the gall to speak to me, mentioning something about music and a song and downloads and now he has maybe 2 percent of my attention, which is just enough for me not to see the boss make a move (which I am usually able to block) and now I’m down to 2.5 lives, so I say, "Look, I’m kinda busy here, can it wait" as my hero onscreen struggles to his feet, then I move him away from the bad guy, escaping like a wussy. And Bryson says how he was thinking about buying the album and his friend Cody has it and I mumble something about borrowing the album, so now he's got 5 percent of my attention and the boss hits me again. Down to 2 lives. and Bryson continues on about some frigging Santa song and so I give up and go for the pause button. And since the pause button is so small and badly located on the controller, I look down and the boss nails me with a full blow. Down to 1 life. Game paused. "Bryson, what!? Do you see what I’m doing here? I’m in the middle of a boss fight. You KNOW what that's LIKE. I just needed a few more minutes, I mean, what is your hurry. Is this really more important than what i'm doing?" Now, 99.9 percent of parents would rip m a new one about now. But for the few who have been a this point, only to be bothered by a young child begging for a moment of attention, I know you understand. But yeah, I apologized. And downloaded him the stupid song. And still beat the game.

Hey, Tori Spelling – you know that duck rattle you wanted for your baby on the way? Don’t worry. Taken care of.

Tori did me a favor – hell, she did all of us a favor – by making her baby registry very easy to find. The upscale baby boutique, Petit Tresor in Beverly Hills, posts its baby registry online (peteitresor.com), so you can indulge anyone pretentious enough to desire a $4,000 crib or $750 onesie. Is that fabulous or what?

Tori, like everyone,wants many things for her baby. Tori, unlike everyone, can afford to buy the store if she chooses to. But then what would she unwrap?

As I perused her list of 55 items, I briefly considered Dr. Brown’s Level 2 Nipples, wondering what one had to do to qualify for Level 1 nipples (and then wondering what the difference was between Level 1 and Level 2 nipples, and then wondering who the hell was Dr. Brown, and what made his/her nipples so damn good that you would want to buy them). The nipples were just $8, but maybe buying nipples for Tori is a little too personal.

I was drawn to the Mobi Cam Ultra Video Monitor, but what if Tori used it to put her baby on the Net? Do we really need videos of another Spelling? Let me answer that: No.

Also on the registry – a $500 Petit Tresor gift certificate. This is probably so TV producers who always hated her suggestions. On anything. Even her own baby stuff.

But what I needed was something cute. And cheap. Mostly cheap.

And there it was. A duck rattle. For $13 (plus an additional Petit Tresor-like $8.95 for shipping; better include some designer bubble wrap for that price). I filled out the form, included a nice note, and sent it on it sway. If you’re looking for the $13 duck rattle on the list, forget it. It’s gone. But there are still the Leaping Life Rings for $26.

I am not sure if Tori will send me a lovely thank-you note, or if one of her assistants will jot off a quick “Cease and desist all communications with Ms. Spelling” email.

But if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.

You know what I love? Those stick-figure families that people put on the back windows of their cars. How special it is that they have a family. I mean, a family! How amazing is that? Amazing enough to put it on the back of your car window. It is wonderful how they proclaim their unique talents to reproduce. Thank you so much for telling us you have a family, and how many members there are in that family, and that each member of the family has a name. I just wish they would tell us more rather than leave us wondering. Do they have homes or apartments? A stick-figure shelter should could let everyone know. What about an income? Maybe a stick-figure dollar sign too, because having a job is just something you should shout to the world. Yet there is so much more. Do they have friends or a restaurant they like to go to? Or maybe they like to see movies. A stick-figure theater could answer that burning question. Please, all you stick-figure family people, don’t stop there. Tell us all about you, because I know when I am on the road, I want to know more about the other drivers on the road. That is why I love to see the stickers on windshields that tell us how proud they are of where they park. Yea, really nice parking spot!

OK, so this happened several years ago. It’s my blog and I’ll write if I want to. Plus this is one of those humiliating experiences that need to be shared with the world, or at least with the three people who accidentally came across this entry while Googling “chump,” “dumbass” and “Jesus, what a fricking idiot.” (Not that this is the only thing that appeared; no doubt there are hundreds of entries at also include the phrase “George W. Bush.”)

I had an opportunity to speak to one RH (though the events that follow are true, RH is just narcissistic enough to Google her name every day, and I really don’t want to come up on her radar ever again, thus I am going to leave it RH). She was sponsoring an upcoming event and me, as a reporter for a major metropolitan daily, had just a few questions so I could write the kind of two-inch brief that has sadly defined my career over the years.

Warning sign No. 1: She was hiking through a local preserve when she answered, explaining she carried a cell phone not because of an emergency, but because she just loved to use this time to talk to friends, because she had so many of them and so little time to “share a few minutes of me.” Warning sign No. 2: She freely admitted this.

We talked about the event for about 10 minutes and then, impressed by my sense of humor (she said this later, I swear, when it was clear nothing else was measuring up), she started asking me questions. How old I was (fairly). If I had any kids (one). If I was married (that’d be a solid no).

Then she asked me out. Now if were testifying under oath, she would say something like, “I didn’t really ask him out. It was more of an implied thing.” Because RH is not a woman who needs to ask guys out. And that is exactly the way she would state it under oath.

The conversation was now 45 minutes old, and no end was in sight.

“So you should drop by my place sometime, we can go out and continue this conversation,” RH said. “I’d really like that.”

Recognizing a date was being implied, I said, “OK, sounds like fun.”

Jesus, what a fricking idiot. Which was pretty clear when Warning sign No. 3 appeared: She asked me how tall I was.

“About 5-8,” I said. Was there shame in my voice? Yes, because 5-8 is going to seem pretty short to a woman who asks your height.

“Oh, well, you’re not boyfriend material, but I still want you to come over.”

Warning sign No. 4: She truly, honestly said that.

I may not have been boyfriend material, but I thought that since we were hitting it off, maybe I could be one-night stand material. Even then I doubted it, but since was the very first time in my life that a woman implied a date, I was all over it.

We made plans for the following Tuesday. She gave me directions to her condo, then we’d go somewhere nearby for dinner. Splendid.

I showed up at the appointed time and was struck by my utter shortness when she answered the door. Maybe she couldn’t play center in the WNBA, but she was certainly forward material. I had never dated a woman taller than me because chicks don’t dig short. That’s just how it is. Tall women find tall guys and have tall children. Professional basketball is proof of that. So let’s just move on.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” I said that, not her as she wondered if I should be removed from the “non-boyfriend” pile to the “non-existent” pile. Apparently she didn’t want to be that rude, positioning the “See what a good person I am” bar pretty low. And for good reason as I would find out.

RH (a very attractive woman, by the way, not that there is anything wrong with that) suggested a restaurant less than a mile away. “It’s one of my favorite places. I know you’ll like it.”

We climbed into my car (“Watch your head’) and were off to her version of Cheers, where everyone knew her name.

Warning sign No., um, you know, it’s really not important at this point: She immediately recognized nearly everyone at the bar, each dressed in suits and sipping Scotch (no doubt single-malt, 21-year-old Scotch, by the looks of it; damn these Dockers of mine).

“Wow, it’s way busier than normal,” she said, scanning for a place to sit. “There, in the corner, let’s try that table.” We navigate among well-dressed men to the table around the bar and to the back. As soon as we sat a waitress appeared. RH ordered wine. Not sure of the make or vintage, only that it wasn’t the house wine.

“What beers do you have on tap?”

I did not say, “Whoops, I think I just crapped my pants,” even though that is how the waitress now was looking at me.

“We don’t have any beer on tap,” she said. “But we have some in bottles. Heineken, Amstel Light, and maybe one or two more, I have to ask the bartender so I’ll be-“

“No, that’s OK, a Heineken would be great,” I said. I did not say, “Oh my god, I am so sorry for inquiring about an inferior beverage,” but that is what my expression said.

RH waved to someone at the bar. “Hold on here just a second, I want to go say a quick hello to someone, be right back,” and suddenly her chair was empty.

OK, well, I could wait. For example, I wait all the time when I go to my dentist, watching how certain procedures can change those with Carnie Mouth (three teeth left, all of htem horribly rotted) into a beautiful smile. It’s done with quick fade-ins, which imply there was some sort of easy, painless and inexpensive work done in between.

Minutes passed. The drinks arrived, the waitress deftly placing a napkin below the glass of wine, then tossing the bottle of Heineken in my general direction. She held a juice glass in her hand.

“No glass, this will be fine,” I said, knowing the tiny glass might only emasculate me further.

Do I drink? Or wait? It would be far more polite to wait. More time passed. Soccer was on a small TV above the bar. I pined for dental videos.

About a half hour later she returned. “I want you to meet a few of my friends, come on,” she said, taking her wine. Her height really came in handy at this point, allowing me to track her through the crowd as I grabbed my beer and slid out of my chair and around the table, so by now she was already 20 feet ahead of me.

She sat at the bar between three men in their 50s. I stood behind her as she made introductions. There was John the developer, Tim the doctor and Ted the financial analyst. I do not really remember their names, but their occupations remain quite clear to this day. John was in the middle of this really huge custom-home subdivision where prices were amazingly low, you should definitely stop by if you were in the market before everyone realized just how far $850,000 could still go. The doctor just took on a new partner, so he had a lot more time to spend on his boat in San Diego. The financial analyst was tired working 60-hour weeks, but he could put up with it knowing he’ll have enough to retire in just a few years, if only his wife could understand that.

No one actually told me this. I gathered this among the conversations RH was juggling. Obviously she had a lot of experience at this.

All of them were plucking various finger foods from two platters on the bar in front of them. Not sure what they were, but they looked crustacean-based and not something designed to go with beer, not a deterrent to business since I was the only one with a beer in my hand.

“So, you build houses,” I said to John, catching him as he and RH just happened to be chewing at the same time.

I did not say, “So, John, you were arrested for child molestation not too long ago,” but that is how RH looked at me.

“Oh, no, John doesn’t build them,” she said. “I think you did that years ago, didn’t you John? When you were a contractor? John’s a dealmaker, the guy who finds the land and gets everyone together on it. John, tell him about those parcels you found up north, the ones everyone thought was out in the middle of nowhere, the ones that now have hous3s overlooking a lake and a golf course.”

“John, those are yours?” said Tim or Ted. “I was just looking up there for my brother, he and his wife and looking for a second home and love this area …”

I listened for another beer or so (yeah, I ordered a second one, secretly hoping the waitress had to go to a supermarket to pick up a six-pack), my eyes almost straying to the soccer game, but I wasn’t that bored. Yet.

“We’re going to continue this over at the bar,” RH said as the four of them stood as one. Did they practice this? Synchronized “Let’s get the hell out of here”? They were very good at it.

“I thought this was the bar.”

“No, the other bar. The more intimate bar. The owner bought it a few years ago because this place was getting so crowded. A nail salon went out of business to he grabbed it and opened up an annex. It’s perfect.”

At this point I wondered, is it a date if you don’t have dinner and never really say anything?

I pulled out my wallet to clear our tab (two beers and, what, three wines? Four?), but RH said the tab was being transferred.

We exit out the back and cross the parking lot that is crammed with large black sedans. Not only do people drink the same Scotch, they all drive the same cars. This must be where Stepford Executives drink.

(Actually, turned out that John Ashcroft was eating with a phalanx of Secret Service men in a private dining room above what I now called The Annex, which also explained the two men in dark suits standing at the bottom of the stairs, whom I assumed were waiting for a spot next to RH at the bar.)

New scenery, same old conversations. About an hour later, John left, shortly followed by Tim and Ted.

“Well, guess we should settle and get out of here. I’ve just got to visit the powder room, be right back.”

I sat at the bar for the first time and was served immediately with the bill. I glanced at the total and thought at first that the waitress did go to a supermarket for my beer, which was in another county and she charged me mileage.

Then I looked at the itemized portion. Not only was I paying for my two bottles of beer, but also for drinks and appetizers consumed by the developer, the doctor and the financial analyst, as well as wine ordered by my “date.” Who was in the “powder room.”

I paid it like a chump.

I took her home, she said it was late and hoped I didn’t mind not being asked to come in for a nightcap, and I drove the 27 miles home thinking that if anything good came out of this, it was that my dating life certainly couldn’t get any worse (I was partially right).

She called me the next morning, thanking me for a wonderful time. “We had such a great conversation, we really seemed to connect, don’t you think? I’d love to do it again.”

“Sure, sounds great, but how about this time I just drop off my Visa card so I will be there in spirit.” No, I didn’t say that, but I really wanted to.

No, we didn’t go out again. No doubt I went from the “non-boyfriend material” pile to “non-entity” pile. And that was just fine. I did not need another opportunity to be a dumbass.

Epilogue: A few months later a friend at work was doing a story on RH, since she had a fairly interesting occupation: matchmaker dealing exclusively with men making at least six figures per year (women had only to be young and attractive). I had told him about the “date,” and he casually mentioned to RH that I might be a candidate for her service. “No,” she said without hesitation. “He’s too mainstream.”